Velvet Elvis
by Mike and Dave
Summary: After all the troubles Emmett's been having with the women in his life he decides to take a break from it all.


Chicks. Emmett thought. Chicks.

Enough of that craziness, it's just me and my bike for two weeks. Two weeks.

Emmett's bike was rebuilt by hand. He knew every nut and bolt and every valve and spark plug. He knew the bike would get him anywhere he wanted. As long as there was a parts store not too far away.

Besides clothing and money he brought his sticks. Hearies thought it a joke when he said he could play drums. Didn't laugh so much when he fucked their girlfriends after the show.

Yeah, he knew it was a weird mixture of pity-fucking, musician-fucking, exotic-fucking, and, let's face it, the fact that he wasn't able to talk back-fucking. Plus he wasn't that bad looking. That didn't hurt.

Still, he got plenty and it was good.

"Blah blah blah" the waitress said, barely looking at Emmett. She was holding her order pad so he figured she was asking for his order. He pointed to the pancake supreme with sausage. Daphne wouldn't approve, but what the hell did she approve of when it came to him anyway?

"Blah blah blah" the waitress went on chuckling to herself. She was gone before Emmett could gesture anything to her. She found him amusing, score one for Emmett.

He was in a small town, but weren't they all in Missouri? Some day he'd make it to New York. Or more likely Austin or San Jose or some other hotbed/safe-place for Deaf folk. There's comfort in that but it also keeps you down. You can do anything when deaf, except hear. That's what they say but it's not entirely true, is it. There's the lack of competition and exposure. You can do anything _within the Deaf Community_ except hear, is what they really mean.

Not that he was complaining, all that much. These were his people. He could communicate with all of them. They all shared life experiences. It wasn't nothing.

But for the next two weeks he was away from all that. Just his bike, good-looks, drumsticks, and Deafie charm. It would get him far.

"Blah blah blah?" the waitress again. She was asking him something – the quizzical look – though he wasn't sure what. He pointed to his ear and shook his and tried to mouth "no".

There was a pause while she tried to figure it out then the lights went on "blah shit blah can't blah!" His lipreading wasn't all that great mainly because he never really tried to get good at it. It's difficult to do well and you have to get used to a person before you can catch all of what they're saying. Anyway, who needs it when you're always surrounded by Deafies?

"Blaaaah blaaaaah blaaaaaaaah blaaaaaaaah blaaaaaaaaaaa" she mouthed slowly. Of course. Typical Hearie. Then that moment when she realized he wasn't a retard and speaking slowly really wasn't the answer. Most people never figure it out but when they do they become apologetic. Not this waitress, she laughed. Tilted her head back and laughed a good one. Then she made a drinking motion, furrowed her eyebrows, and tilted her head. What did he want to drink. She pretty much nailed the sign and non-manual marker. She has good instincts for this.

Emmett mimed milking a cow and then pointed to her hair. Her dark brown hair. It took her half-a-beat but she figured it out and brought him a glass of chocolate milk. She was quick.

He finished up his pancakes and left. Taped to the door window was a flyer about an open mike night at a local bar happening tonight. Just what he was looking for, a chance to play for people he didn't know. It's what he needed.

When he signed up for a slot at the bar he got all the looks he expected to: pity, amusement, incredulousness, more pity, then the aw-shucks-ain't-that-just-the-cutest-thing-ever-bless-his-heart look. Whatever.

When his time came up he got behind the house drum kit and wailed for five minutes. He blew them away and while he couldn't hear their cheers and clapping he could see it in their movements. Good.

He waved and started to leave the stage when a small hand, a woman's hand, grabbed him from behind. It was the waitress and she was carrying a guitar. She motioned him to sit and play drums while she played and sang. She gestured that her music was a slow 4/4 with a folksy feel. He nodded yes and said he would follow her signals.

And then they played. And played some more. And then another song. The audience wouldn't let them off the stage. Emmett couldn't hear or feel anything she was doing but her body movement was so expressive he could sense when to play aggressively or when to hold back. He followed her tapping foot for the tempo and took a solo when she nodded to him. It was simple playing but it was pure. She had talent and she was able to communicate more to him with a shift in her hips than any Deafie could even with perfect lighting.

Back at her place they couldn't keep their clothes on. The sex was as good as the music was. They found a rhythm and followed it through to the end. Each one sensing when to push and when to step back. And just like they fed off the crowd's enthusiasm at the club they fed off each other's passion.

After it was over they laid in bed next to each other. Not holding each other, no need for that. Eventually she rolled over and saw the tattoo on his chest. It was poorly done but she was able to make out that it was a picture of Elvis. She mouthed Elvis and looked at him with raised eyebrows. He nodded and did the lip curl. She laughed and bumped his hip with hers. He did his best Elvis pelvis turn and they both laughed.

The next morning they said their goodbyes. But he didn't want to leave. There was something about her, this waitress with the stage presence. He wrote her a note stating that he wanted to stay in town for a while longer and maybe they could hang out. She saw his note, smiled tenderly and then threw it away without reading it. She held his face between her hands and kissed him. He understood, they had their night. They were from different worlds and would never really get each other. Their time on the stage and in her bed was just one of those nights when everything worked out. There was no guarantee that it could ever happen again.

Emmett started up his bike and headed to the next small town looking for another waitress and another chance to play the drums. It was going to be a good two weeks.


End file.
